Liquid Courage
by littleblackdog
Summary: Now he was being pawed at by a very drunk, very handsy, very heavy mage. Not that he'd ever call Hawke heavy to her face, or anywhere she might hear him, or out loud ever.  It was... an unconventional sort of courtship.  Varric/F!Hawke.
1. Liquid Courage

_AN: This is a series of kinkmeme fills I did a while back, re-posted here for your viewing pleasure. Here there be smut and romance, of a dwarfy variety. Shocking from me, I know. _

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><p>This was… Andraste's ass, this was just <em>peachy<em>, wasn't it?

"Varric—" Hawke's breath was hot against his neck, her long, slender hand was burrowing under his shirt, skating over his ribs, and she wouldn't stop _wriggling_. Maker have mercy, did humans have to be so bloody _tall_? "Varric, we're in your room. This is _perfect_."

He had never hefted a smith's hammer, nor did he routinely lug around gigantic sacks of potatoes— Varric had pretty much lived his entire life trying to avoid the unnecessary lifting of heavy things. His Bianca was a well-built lady, sure, but he'd spent a substantial amount of both sovereigns and time making sure she was as svelte as possible.

Now though, now he was sweating like a whore in a chantry, and being pawed at by a very drunk, very handsy, _very heavy_ mage. Not that he'd ever call Hawke heavy to her face, or anywhere she might hear him, or out loud ever. He liked his insides _inside_, and his hair very much not on fire.

"Perfect," he grunted, making sure her gangly legs weren't about to get caught up when he kicked the door closed behind them. When he took the extra moment to secure the bolt, she pinched his nipple. "Yeah, okay, let's go with that."

It was well before midday, so the Hanged Man had been quiet enough that he'd wrangled Hawke upstairs without making a huge scene. The few pathetic sots who basically lived in the tavern (_downstairs_, drowning in shitty ale; living upstairs was a perfectly respectable practice) hadn't even lifted their heads as he dragged her past.

It had been a rough couple of months since the Deep Roads, and Varric could sympathize with the _betrayed by your brother_ thing. He really could. They hadn't actually talked about it, and he could see now that maybe they should have, but the _not talking_ had seemed like a good bonding experience at the time. He'd smothered the searing heat of his anger with copious amounts of brandy, Hawke had gone and done whatever she did when they weren't killing bandits and mercenaries, and everything seemed to go back to something on the tense side of normal again. Regardless of anything else, they were bloody _rich_— that soothed a bit of the sting, sort of.

Shuffling over in the direction of his bed, Varric peeled himself free of the enthusiastic groping he was suffering and shoved Hawke back onto the mattress. It seemed as if she had finally decided to wallow in the misery she'd been holding back ever since that little prick Caver had stormed out of the slums in his shiny templar frock. Really though, she could've at least had the good sense to drink herself stupid in the privacy of her new mansion, not the middle of Lowtown. Judging by the boneless look she was currently sporting, and based on past experiences with liquor and this particular mage, Varric had little doubt she'd be snoring and drooling all over his pillows very shortly.

He was such a giver.

"Varric," she slurred again, making grabby hands somewhere approaching his vicinity even as her head lolled lazily to one side. She was looking at him, or _mostly_ at him at least, and he felt the smallest jolt of heat in his gut at the inviting glint in her eyes and way her chest was heaving. When he'd found her stumbling around the bazaar, just as shit-wrecked as his informant had warned him she was, her robes had already been unlaced almost to the point of indecency— not _that_ strange for Lowtown, but it was early in the day. "You sodding sexy dwarf, you… C'mere."

Nope, not going to happen. Sure, Hawke was a gorgeous woman— funny, sharp, a hoot at parties— but she was also the biggest mess of crazy and trouble he'd ever met. There was a very large, very ominous sign that he'd always been aware of, looming right over any stray thought of whatever plans the drunk, surprisingly horny Hawke thought she was up for. That sign, just like the one he'd once told Aveline to have made up, said _DON'T_.

He smiled at her, taking a slow step away now that he was fairly convinced she wasn't about to tumble out of the bed and break her neck. "Maybe after your nap, okay sweetheart?"

Of course, contrary to all sense and luck, Hawke found enough muscle not yet turned to mush and managed to haul herself around, teetering dangerously on her knees before dropping back onto one hip, and flashing him a rather expansive swathe of creamy breasts in the process. It was… distracting, a little, and that was probably enough excuse to justify why he didn't manage to move back before she stretched out and grabbed hold of his belt. He hadn't seen _everything_, probably less than Isabela showed off on a usual day, but they were awfully nice breasts.

Crazy. Trouble. No, no, _no_.

Hawke was smirking, flushed pretty and pink from the messy fringe of her hair all the way down to where she was spilling out of her robes, and Varric felt his mouth go very dry, very fast. This was Not Good.

"Mmm, not tired." It was… oh _shit_, it was a very dirty smirk. "Watch this."

There wasn't really much to watch, just a small flicker of light, but when the room around him narrowed very sharply and Varric's eyes rolled back into his head—

He would have cursed or gasped or _something_ to acknowledge the incredibly bizarre sensation of lightning crawling very gently but persistently down his belly and around his groin, but there was an extra tongue in his mouth, and it was a little crowded. Every ounce of blood in his body was rushing downward, probably trying to get good seats for this fascinating new sensation, and somewhere along the way his mind decided it really needed a break. This shit was getting too weird, and apparently he and his cock were on their own. Fantastic.

The particulars were a bit of a blur— more lightning, he knew, and ice, and _that tongue_— but Hawke was a hurricane of want and unexpected nakedness, and it was even more convincing than her usual charm. Varric felt dizzy, stupidly so, but he managed to forget exactly how monumentally insane this was just before she had him manhandled and roughly stripped, then laid out across his own bed like some kind of raunchy sacrifice.

Hawke had… she had a _presence_, or something. It was what made him think offering her a partnership in the expedition was a very good idea, even though she hadn't been all that far removed from the stinking refugees still clogging up the Gallows. It was certainly what kept him traipsing around Kirkwall in her shadow even now, with their little holiday in the Deep Roads long over and him with an entire, sprawling family to manage.

He figured that presence might be at least a little to blame for his current predicament, but the wicked mouth trying to suck his soul out through his cock was probably also a contributing factor.

This was so wrong. Once Hawke sobered up, she was going to _murder him._

"Holy fucking Andraste," he hissed, heels digging hard into his mattress when Hawke pressed her knuckle up behind his balls. He felt her chuckle vibrate all the way down to his toes, and then her head started bobbing like cocksucking was a _race_, sparks crackled from her fingers into places he was fairly sure sparks weren't meant to go, and the whole world took that opportunity to go brilliant, blinding white.

"Shit—" Eventually, somewhere between unconscious and completely out of his mind, Varric found enough breath to gasp, blinking up at the dishevelled woman curled around his side. "Oh _fuck_, what was— what _was _that?"

"Varric…" If he survived this, he was going to have to change his name. It would be really embarrassing to get a raging hard-on every time somebody wanted to get his attention, but he'd never hear it again without remembering Hawke's breathy little sigh.

She was shifting, panting against his shoulder, and a quick glance downward confirmed why. Varric stared, maybe just a little transfixed as Hawke furiously rubbed one out right beside him, then caught himself being such an utter moron.

Varric Tethras was many things: a skilled businessman, a crack shot, and a damn fine storyteller probably first among them. A scoundrel, a liar, and a thief, certainly. Let it never be said, however, that he was anything less than a gentleman, especially when it came to situations like this.

It wasn't as if she was going to murder him _more_ at this point, anyway. Dead was dead, which was exactly what he'd be once she slept off this stupor. With that cheery thought in mind, Varric swallowed back every ounce of good sense that was screaming at him to _run as fast as he could, preferably to the Anderfels._ Any thinking portions of his brain that managed to stumble back after that incredible orgasm were now effectively turned off; he rolled over and truly drank in the vision before him.

"Hey there," he murmured, reaching out to slide her very busy hand out of his way. She was so beautifully slick, already dripping wet with her hips jerking, and at the first touch of his fingers she _whimpered_, for Andraste's sake. If he hadn't been completed fucked before, he certainly was then.

Her breasts were indeed awfully nice. Soft and bouncy, with just enough muscle behind them to keep them pert— they tasted divine, too. And the _sounds _she made when he suckled them, all the while demonstrating why dexterous hands were good for more than just picking locks…

He might not have the advantage of magic at his disposal, but he wasn't exactly new at this either. It wasn't even the first time he'd had a human woman— he'd always appreciated the appeal of elven flexibly and dwarven curves, and humans were usually a delicious middle-ground. The mage thing was a novel experience, but so far he was completely _sold_.

She was restless, and as much as he usually liked to draw these things out, he wasn't completely sure how long this bout of insanity could last. She obviously knew it was him, she wasn't _that_ far gone, and it's not like he was groping her in a filthy alley, but he really didn't want to get caught bare-assed when she put her serious hat back on. Hawke was fun, and Hawke was flirty, but Hawke was also _fucking terrifying._

Speaking of that, Varric was finding himself more and more turned on, despite having so recently experienced the best orgasm of his life— he wasn't exactly ready for action, but he easily could have been, given a little more time and the proper encouragement. He wanted to sink into her heat so badly, to fill her up and move with her, to feel the pressure of those shapely legs wound around his back, but that… Well, that was a line he wasn't about to cross with Hawke not quite herself. So instead, he ignored the twitching in his crotch and redoubled his efforts, making Hawke thrash and dig her nails hard into his scalp as his tongue slipped down to join his fingers.

He could feel tingling branching out through his hair, and spared a momentary thought about whether or not Hawke was in any fit state to keep her magic under control. Then she _howled_, arching her back as he curled his tongue _just like that_, and all such vague concerns were pushed aside. Dying with his face pressed between a beautiful woman's legs was probably the best he could ever hope for, after all, even if she did accidentally blast the top of his head off. It beat starving in the Deep Roads, anyway, or getting shanked by a Carta thug.

When the banging started on his door, loud and insistent, Varric started cursing a blue streak before he thought better of it. The vibration of his words made Hawke moan urgently, which was _great _other than the interruption, but it didn't appear like his bedpartner was nearly as concerned about guests as he was. He tried to sit up, but she just gripped his hair harder, and her legs locked around his shoulders.

"More!" The throaty, demanding quality of her voice was very convincing. "Oh Maker, Varric, _so close_—"

Whoever it was clanging around outside could just _wait._Unless the tavern was on fire, Varric didn't bloody care… and he could see Hawke, so there probably wasn't a fire. Tuning out the banging and the muffled voices calling his name from the corridor, Varric focused his full attention back on the nearly sobbing hitch of Hawke's breathing, speeding up the pumping of his fingers to match the quaking of her hips.

He was a merchant prince, steeped in the backstabbing of surface dwarf machinations, so he still managed to notice when his door creaked opened, even with Hawke's thighs glued to his ears. It was harder to ignore rude bastards when they didn't even have the decency to wait for a woman to properly peak, and Varric firmly but gently disentangled himself enough to reach for the knives secreted in his headboard. He didn't especially like blades, and Bianca was his soulmate, but no matter what the rumours implied, she was awkward to sleep with.

He stopped when he saw who the uninvited guests actually were. If Choirboy's cheeks blushed any redder, he'd burst into flames that would rival Andraste's pyre. Blondie, a surprising addition at the other man's heels considering how much bitterness he usually had for all things Chantry, looked almost equally appalled. Hawke decided their audience warranted shrieking like an alley cat and yanking the edge of the blankets up over her nakedness, which was good and bad. Varric hadn't quite finished with her nakedness, and the pair of harsh, outraged glowers he was suddenly receiving didn't do a thing to improve his mood.

Hawke was decently bundled, with only a mess of hair peeking out of her cocoon, but that left Varric at something of a garment disadvantage. At this point— nude, frustrated, and getting a mean stink-eye from _trespassers_— he was way too pissed off to give a shit.

Laying a hand on Hawke's leg, a move that prompted her to wiggle slightly towards him, Varric glared right back. "Can we help you, boys?"

"You— You filthy little _degenerate,_" Sebastian barked, just as Anders puffed up like fury itself (minus the glowing thing, at least), with flames igniting around his clenched fists.

Apparently the knives might still be a good plan.

When Hawke darted up, raising a glimmering shield around the bed, Varric took the opportunity to slide back and palm a blade. Having a woman throw herself between him and danger might have emasculated a lesser man, but Varric was too practical and too naked to really worry about machismo.

Sebastian was furious, or so it appeared, though his words sounded faint and far-off through the arcane barrier. Varric thought he caught _bewitched, taken advantage,_ and _sullied_ somewhere in the ranting, and the implications turned his gut to ice. Had he— Oh _shit,_ he'd assumed she was just drunk, enough to make this whole thing a bad idea but not a complete moral sinkhole, and he'd felt guilty enough about _that_—

Hawke didn't seem terribly concerned, which itself was sort of alarming. Blankets tucked up under her arms, she pointed exaggeratedly at the small bottle Sebastian was flailing about, then at Anders, who was looking decidedly less angry and much more confused. That strange little performance complete, she made a very rude gesture at the pair of them and scooted back across the mattress, unwrapping herself just enough to toss the blankets over him as well.

Varric tensed up, extremely unsure what to do with his hands at this point other than be careful not to stab the woman snuggling up against him. The blankets covered them both head to foot (his feet, anyway; Hawke's were some incredible human distance away, so he couldn't be sure), creating a dim little cavern of bare flesh and warm breath, and he really, really needed to know what in the blighted Void was going on.

"Uh, Hawke," he began hesitantly, still hearing only eerie, muted quiet from out in the room. "What—"

"Shh…" This definitely wasn't the time for shushing, but before he could insist on an explanation, Hawke's mouth was pressed against his. They'd only really kissed a couple of times since she'd dragged him onto the bed and proceeded to ravish him stupid, but it was something Varric was discovering a real appreciation for. Hawke was fierce and playful, which wasn't a surprise at all, but it was exactly what he liked in a woman. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his hair tie, and now her fingers were curling and tugging at his nape, sending shivers down his spine that pulsed in time with the slow rolling of her hips.

If he hadn't been wracked by such an utterly hideous, horrifying thought— _did I just_— he definitely would have insisted they continue with the kissing.

Tearing his mouth away, Varric reached up to tuck the knife hastily back in its hidden compartment, then laid a restraining hand on Hawke's cheek. "Whoa. Explain _bewitched_."

He may have been born under a beautiful blue sky, but he was still descended from a race of cave dwellers. Even in the darkness of their impromptu hiding place, Varric could see Hawke bite her lip.

"There was a potion," she said softly, and so far there was no hint of accusation. It was also a bit reassuring that she could speak in full sentences, though she still didn't sound entirely clear-headed. Regardless, _there was a potion_ was not what he wanted to hear. "Sol made it for me, to boost spellpower. It may have had some side effects."

He would have immediately pressed for a bit more information than that, but there were still raised voices outside their bubble of calm; if he was quiet, Varric could only just make out a word here and there. None of it sounded good.

Hawke's tongue snaked across the inside of his wrist, and Varric tried hard not to start cursing again. So much for reconnaissance. "Yeah, no— talk to me, Hawke. What side effects? I'm a bit hung up on the two angry men storming into my room, roaring that I've _sullied_ you."

She sighed, a great gust of breath, which only served to remind him precisely how close together their faces still were. "Sebastian's a _tit_," she groused, and it was so unexpected he couldn't contain his laugh. She'd never had a bad word to say about Choirboy before, though she did try and hide a smile whenever Varric got overwhelmed by saccharine piety and gave the kid a hard time. "Wouldn't know a thing about potions if you drowned him in one."

Her fingers slid down his neck, trailing sparks, and that was _cheating_—

"Anders should know better." _Somebody_ should know better; it certainly hadn't been Varric so far. "Can't we just ignore them? They'll leave soon."

It was so very tempting, but no. Not with this kind of apprehension still looming over him. "Uh-uh. What side effects?"

Before Hawke could answer, or grope him, or whatever her next crazy move was going to be, there was a whooshing noise from beyond the blankets. Sebastian's voice, formerly muffled, was suddenly clear and ear-splittingly loud.

"—not in her right mind! She wouldn't—"

"Maker's sake, shut _up_, would you?" That was Blondie, sounding like his sour, cranky self again. "There, everything's dispelled and you can shout your bloody head off. I'm leaving. Very sorry, Hawke."

Hawke sighed again, and Varric blinked at the unexpected light when she pushed the blankets away just enough to peek out, lifting herself up on one elbow. "Heart-warming concern," she said, and the clear snark combined with the eye-level view of her bare breasts Varric was suddenly enjoying was just fantastic. "And I appreciate it, truly. But I'm not unconscious, not being molested, and _really_ not interested in having a discussion right now. Naked dwarf, incredible fingers— You? _Go_."

The last time Varric had heard the Choirboy sputter like that, Isabela had been halfway through a story involving a hammock, red-headed triplets, and a goose. "I— Hawke— But you—"

"_Out,_ before I set you on fire." There was a final argumentative squawking, but also very swift footsteps. "And close the door."

When the door slammed, Varric barely had time to register the pounding headache that had formed between his brows before he was being pushed onto his back by a wild-eyed mage. He would have struggled, probably, but Hawke was bendy and surprisingly quick, and suddenly she was straddling his waist and pressing tight and wet against his half-hard cock.

"_Shit,_" he groaned, scrambling for two wits to rub together. "Maker's _breath_—"

Hawke chuckled, breathless and husky, and braced one arm on the headboard. "I'm not unconscious," she said, just as she'd told Sebastian a few moments before. "And if anyone's being molested here, it's _you_."

She rocked against him, scraping her nails down over his chest, then back up. "I'm— oh, _Varric_— not bewitched. Just a little tipsy, and a little… braver."

He rarely stumbled over his words, but with Hawke's knees clamped against his ribs and his cock being pressed slowly but surely up into her slick, almost molten heat, he managed a very articulate: "_Ngh_—"

There was so much more to say, because how in the Maker's name could Hawke get any braver? And why would she need to be _brave_ to get him into bed? Andraste's flaming sword, she blasted ogres into little, smoking bits and killed demons in her free time, and she flirted sweetly and harmlessly with everyone, all the bloody time, even with _Aveline_… If he'd ever truly thought she wanted _him,_ the mouthy dwarf who told bullshit stories and bought her drinks and taught her how to cheat at cards… _Shit_.

Once he'd remembered how to speak again, out loud, they'd… they'd talk.


	2. Ridiculously Fond

_Definitely not also known as **Liquid Courage 2: Dwarf Harder**_

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><p>Varric stepped carefully around a pile of… something and slipped into the Darktown clinic, the only half-tolerable place in the dankest pisshole in Thedas. That didn't mean it wasn't still unbelievably awful, though. There were a few patients in various states of consciousness lying around on cots, but Anders wasn't tending to anyone at that precise moment. In fact, the mage was hidden away in a back corner, hunched over a table as he scribbled madly across a sheet of parchment. The pile of pages at his elbow, dark with ink, made Varric swallow back a groan.<p>

If he found another copy of that blighted manifesto anywhere near his guild ledgers, pages of poorly written insanity clogging up the paperwork he despised anyway, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

"Hey, Blondie— " Anders' head shot up, his eyes clouded in that unfocused, mildly-deranged way that Varric knew Hawke was growing more concerned about. "You got a minute?"

Varric didn't comment on the few silent moments Anders blinked at him, looking lost. Dealing with this kind of crazy was not his strong suit, nor did he especially want to get some practice at it. He just did his best to keep Blondie from getting gutted by the gangs, and tried to draw the man out of his shell when the occasion presented itself, which was less and less often these days.

Finally, Anders shook his head and glanced back at the pages in front of him, tapping his fingers absently. "Varric, I don't think we're quite far enough removed from the… _incident_ for this to be less than awkward. But go ahead."

Well, there was that out of the way, at least.

Moving to lean against the table, then thinking better of it when he noticed a weird stain spidering out over the pitted wood, Varric shrugged noncommittally. He'd been thinking of how to broach this question for two days, ever since Hawke had gotten _brave _and he'd gotten laid, and then she'd disappeared the very next morning to climb Sundermount with the Rivaini and their pair of elves. She hadn't given him the chance to have the proper talk he'd wanted, keeping him otherwise occupied for that entire incredible day and most of the night, but she had given him probably the dirtiest, sexiest kiss imaginable just before she'd left him sore and tangled up in his ruined bedclothes, so that was something.

He wasn't about to reminisce about all the unique particulars of that kiss at that moment, however. Anders' attention span was not exceptionally long to begin with, unless you wanted to rant about templars for a few hours. "Okay, you're Fereldan. Is there… I mean, what to Fereldan women _like_?"

That earned him a sharp, strangely unreadable glance. "Dwarves, apparently."

It was a little bitter around the edges, but the answer had a spark of humour that Varric latched onto like a drowning man. He grinned, hooking his thumbs in his belt, and kept his own tone very light. "Oh Maker, he's making jokes; things must be looking up. Did Hawke make a templar piss in his skirt again? Did I miss it?"

It was the kind of day where Anders chuckled quietly, almost no sound at all. Varric was getting pretty good at identifying which days he'd get that, and when he'd get a cranky abomination up in his face instead. At this point, it was mostly the second one, but apparently catching him and Hawke with their asses out, _literally_, had put Anders in a good mood— that, or managed to scare that killjoy Justice away for a bit. Varric wasn't picky.

"What exactly are you asking?" Anders' fingernails were ragged and bloody where he'd been chewing them, leaving red smudges on the parchment, and Varric watched as the man finally noticed. There was a faint shimmer of blue light, and the torn skin knitted together. "Hm. Hawke… well, Hawke certainly sounded like she was enjoying herself."

Varric schooled his grin into something a little less smug than it was trying to be. "I mean beyond that, Blondie. I've got that part… well in hand." Anders made a face, cheeks turning a little pink, and Varric decided to push on just in case some poor bastard came stumbling in with a rash, or this unusually lucid period decided to take a glowy turn. "Antivans like poetry, songs, stuff like that. Orlesians want gifts, Marchers usually go for liquor, and Rivaini just need a relatively flat surface…"

Now he was being gawked at, and Varric was regretting not drawing out the smug part of the conversation. "Wait, wait— are you asking me how to _court_? How to _court Hawke_?"

"I— no." He shifted in his boots, considering his other options. "Sort of. Shit."

Really laughing now, Anders leaned back in his chair and laced his hands together over his stomach. "Oh that's _fantastic—_ Maker's breath, the dwarf's asking me how to _woo_." Varric gritted his teeth, almost wishing he'd gone to Aveline instead, but no, that was just stupid. He wanted to do this right, and taking a ribbing was better than showing up at Hawke's door with two goats and a sheaf of wheat, or whatever.

It was about two hours later when Varric wandered back up to Lowtown— Andraste's ass, nobody should live in a place where Lowtown was _up_— feeling somewhat better informed. It wasn't so difficult, actually; if Blondie knew what he was talking about, Fereldan women in general were pretty straightforward. Varric knew better than to take the advice just on spec, but he could see how tweaking some of it to be more Hawke-specific could work.

It was early evening, and Varric considered taking the long way home just to check in if the intrepid explorers had made it back yet, but stopped himself within sight of the stairs to Hightown. It wasn't the long way, it was the completely backwards, ridiculously-out-of-his-way way, and Hawke could still be traipsing around the countryside for all he knew.

"Shit." He ran one hand over his hair, scratching the back of his head. "Shit, shit, _shit._"

The Tevinters hadn't put all these blighted stairs in with dwarven legs in mind, the selfish pricks.

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><p>Hawke hadn't actually been home yet, which was one long sodding trek for nothing, but Varric had been light-headed enough from his climb to leave a note with Bodahn. He regretted it almost immediately— he felt like an <em>ass<em>— but it would be a thousand times worse to scramble back inside and ask for the damn thing back.

He'd invited her to dinner. Dinner at his place, like it was a _thing,_and he could not remember the last time he'd done that for a woman. Generally, if he brought a woman to his room, it was for sex or business… never both, because that was just messy. Hawke was the exception on all counts, it seemed. It had been business at first, but then they'd gotten to know each other, and it eventually wasn't strange for her to simply visit, for drinks, or cards, or just to talk. Even before she held him down and fucked him stupid, Hawke still spent more time in his room than anyone else besides himself. She was… she fit in his space, in his life, in a way he hadn't really considered.

So that's how he ended up fidgeting with a glass of wine and staring into his fireplace, waiting for Hawke. He'd thrown on one of his best shirts, forgone his coat (a decision that just made him feel naked already, and not in a good way), and left his hair loose. Yep, he still felt like an ass.

A tentative knock on his door made him jump, splashing wine all over his hand, and he was licking it off when Hawke made her appearance. Her fingers were already twisting awkwardly in the cuffs of her robes, and the blush that reddened her cheeks when she saw him was unexpected.

It really shouldn't have been surprising at all, he realised suddenly. He'd known Hawke for years, but somehow he'd managed to overlook a very vital piece of information about this whole tangle— something she had told him herself, for Andraste's sake.

Why would she think she needed to be brave to get him into bed? Because she was _nervous_, and for him to be a flighty little girl about it certainly wouldn't help matters. With that thought in mind, Varric stamped down all the panicky fluttering in his own gut and shook off all of his concerns. It wasn't a mask, but it was a choice: he would be brave, and sure, and completely certain, for her. He would be exactly what she needed, which is what he'd always tried to be, really.

Setting his glass on the table, Varric let his mouth curl up into a very warm smile and walked over to greet his guest. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze lingering along the wall instead, but when he stepped close and gently took her hand in his, her eyes darted back to his face. Her blush didn't fade one bit when he pressed a kiss against her knuckles, and it actually started crawling down her neck when he turned her hand over and pressed another, longer kiss against her palm.

"Marian," he murmured, and the word felt strange in his mouth. Not bad, just strange. "Thanks for coming."

"Thank you for having me," she answered instantly, almost automatically, but then her eyes shifted in the direction of the bed, and her cheeks exploded with colour. The hand he wasn't holding pressed against her lips, and Varric let his smile broaden into a grin when it became clear she was giggling, even if it was in embarrassment.

"Oh Maker's _balls_," she muttered, sliding her palm up to press against one cheek. "I'm being ridiculous."

He stepped back, tugging her along as he moved towards the table. "You know, I'm strangely fond of ridiculous. Beats boring any day of the week." The chairs had been shuffled around to seat two people kitty-corner, and he let Hawke go long enough to pull one out for her. Everything in his room was built for someone dwarf height, which basically meant it was all guaranteed to be too short, but it would have been really, really weird to buy new furniture just to have a human over for a meal.

Hawke didn't seem to mind, but then she'd never complained about his chairs. She lowered herself into the seat, folding her legs in front of herself like usual, and Varric got to pouring wine before the food showed up.

If she wondered why he'd broken habit and put her at the head of the table, she didn't mention it. She also started to smile a bit easier when he began chatting like this was any other night, and he noticed she was being very careful to sip slowly at her wine. The idea that she wanted to be clear-headed for this, but was relaxing anyway as they talked and joked… it made something warm curl in his chest.

He kept feathering light touches on her hand and arm, and silently cheered the first time her fingers stroked his palm in return. He'd called in a favour and dropped a bit of coin to get an old acquaintance whipping up something special in the Hanged Man's tiny kitchen, but the surprised delight that brightened Hawke's expression when the meal arrived was more than worth an afternoon of finagling.

He'd considered Fereldan food, but somehow gravy and boiled meat didn't exactly scream romantic evening. The Antivans though, they had the right idea— most foods got at least a little sexier if you made them small and moist and could eat them with your fingers. Hawke smirked a little before following his lead with that part, but now her fingertips were shiny with sauces, and it seemed like the perfect time to… embrace the culture of this cuisine a bit more.

"Here, look at this," he said, picking up a pair of small bottles and pouring a little of each onto an empty spot on his plate. Dark vinegar beaded up in the golden oil, and Varric tore off a bite-sized hunk of bread to dip in the mixture. When he held it out to her, offering, he saw heat darken her eyes that had nothing to do with the flickering firelight. He waited, not making any attempt to coax, and a moment or two later he was rewarded by the velvety brush of her lips on his skin, and the wet slide of her tongue clearing away every trace of oil.

Things were a little less about eating and a little more about feeding after that, but Varric was not complaining. There was still talking to do, however, and he forced himself to keep that thought very firmly in the front of his mind.

He chewed and swallowed the pitted olive she'd just given him, licking his bottom lip where her thumb had been teasing. Chairs had been shifted, scooting closer until they were nearly elbow to elbow, and Varric made sure his lips were completely clean before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss against her shoulder.

"You didn't need a potion," he murmured against the silky fabric of her robes, and watched an uneasy sigh shudder its way out of her chest. He kept talking, not wanting to give her a chance to get all edgy again. "If I'd known… Maker, you could've just snapped your fingers."

That was pretty much true, he'd come to realise. Sure, she was crazy, and she was trouble, but he'd never been able to say no to her before. He didn't _want _to say no to her, and that particular insight was still too daunting to think about for very long.

He slid one hand down her arm, not stopping until he'd laced their fingers together. Her hand was so narrow, so fine-boned, but the sight didn't make him feel awkwardly bulky, which was something he'd been weirdly concerned about.

She shifted, hiding her eyes under the fringe of her hair, and spoke just as softly as he had. "Why didn't you say anything, then?"

_Because you scare the living piss out of me, worse than Aveline but in a very different way_ seemed like the wrong answer. He hunted quickly for a better one.

"Because." He squeezed her fingers, gazing over at the fire rather than staring at the side of her face. "Because you're the most incredible woman I've ever met, and even though I'm hands-down the finest dwarf in Kirkwall, I still have no idea how that's good enough for you. I'm pretty sure it's _not_, actually, and you've just had too many hits to the head."

Silence sat heavy around them, until finally there was rustling, and Varric felt warm, sweet breath ghost across his cheek. "So, you're lucky I'm daft?"

He laughed in sudden, painful relief, catching her mouth in a kiss that was all tongues and panting, and made him shiver. When he tried to pull back, she followed, and he laughed again while she bit and licked at his chin. "Oh, sweetheart," he chuckled softly. "The luckiest, no doubt."

Talking and sex definitely weren't mutually exclusive, but he couldn't say the same for being comfortable while Hawke tried to crawl up into his lap with a big stone table squishing her from behind. A willing woman straddling his thighs was usually such a great thing, and that woman being _Hawke_ made it so much better, but this was skirting a little too close to painful.

"Okay, hold it." He had two handfuls of very alluring bottom, while a pair of breasts were trying to get reacquainted with his face, and the way Hawke's robes had hitched up above her knees was just _fabulous_. If he didn't stop them now, he'd regret it, probably right around the time he was bending her over the table, and one of them ended up face-first in a lamp. "Bed, right over there. Clean sheets and everything."

There were teeth scraping his ear, tugging at one of his gold hoops while Hawke's fingers combed through his hair, and he latched on to the thought of a face full of oil lamp. "Dinner and clean sheets?" Her voice was a purr, skating down his spine and calling up very lovely memories of magical lightning. "You absolute charmer, Varric."

He'd never had the opportunity to undo a set of mage robes before, but he thought he had at least the basic idea down. There was a clasp at the collar, small and mostly hidden, and he leaned forward just enough to yank it open with his teeth. At the same time, he drew his hands in tighter, pressing Hawke's hips against his… growing interest.

She moaned into his neck, grinding down against him, and Varric very purposefully did not start undoing the laces that would free her chest. He knew his limits, and _wow _was he ever barrelling towards them.

"Bed," he said again, and it took every ounce of self-control he had at his disposal to peel his hands away from her. "Seriously. I want to see you."

It was shamefully clumsy, but they did eventually tumble onto his mattress, and he groaned roughly when Hawke hauled his shirt over his head and scratched sparking hands down his chest. He had her robes off soon after, and maybe they were a bit more complex than he'd expected, because he was fairly certain he heard something rip. Hawke gave him a _look_ when it happened, but then she stuck her hands down the front of his trousers and squeezed— shit, if this was his punishment, then not a stitch of clothing was safe. He'd buy her a whole new sodding wardrobe, just to tear it off her.

He was also really glad he'd thought to pay his rent early this month, with a sizable discretion bonus included. When Hawke's knees were hooked over his shoulders, heels pounding against his back as she swore and shouted and shrieked with abandon, he wouldn't have had the heart to tell her to quiet down. Not that he would've seriously considered such a thing anyway— pissing off his landlord was a small price to pay for a serenade of _more_ and _faster_ and best of all _oh Maker, yes, Varric_.

Later, sweaty and grinning, he welcomed her snuggling up close against his side, and hummed contentedly while she twirled her fingers through his chest hair. Every time she flicked one of his nipples, which she was totally doing on purpose at this point, he'd feel his cock twitch pathetically. He was tempted to check under the bed for a desire demon, but that would mean moving, and that didn't seem likely to happen.

Hawke turned her head, resting her chin above his heart and looking up at him with soft, satisfied eyes. If she felt the way his pulse skittered, she didn't mention anything. "So... Do you think Bianca is jealous?"

It was a legitimate concern, even if she was just teasing him. Varric spared a quick glance at the crossbow sitting peacefully— reproachfully— in her stand. It was like this every time he'd ever brought a woman home, but this time his better half was just going to have to deal.

Refusing to wither under an inanimate glare, Varric turned his attention back to the woman in his arms, tracing his fingers teasingly down her long, elegant spine. "Definitely, but she'll get over it."


	3. It's Like an Incentive Plan

Varric let his gaze wander lazily around the market, noting the familiar array of cutpurses and swindlers making rounds. That was one of the only nice things about Hightown— the criminals usually had a bit of class, and they'd mostly learned to leave Hawke and her merry band alone. Other than that slightly less smelly criminal element, Varric would pretty much take a breezy afternoon in the bazaar over being sneered at by these stuff-shirted prigs any day of the week.

He wasn't entirely certain what he was doing in Hightown that particular morning, but it had something to do with slavers and all the nasty surprises that usually entailed, so Hawke had asked him to tag along. It wasn't exactly the most convenient time for him to go slogging around boltholes on the Wounded Coast, but a gang of dug-in slavers meant defences and traps, and Varric happened to have a vested interest in keeping Hawke's legs largely unmarred. They were long and gorgeous, and felt fantastic wrapped around him; it would be a crime against the Maker for them to get blown off by a shit-rigged pressure plate.

The Guild was already barking at him about some garbage or other, but fuck them, he had perfect, sexy legs to look out for. Ledgers had been tossed aside, meetings were rescheduled, and he did his best not to think about the mess he'd likely have waiting for him when he got back. If Varric could have gotten his hands on Bartrand at that moment, he would have murdered the greasy bastard twice— once for being a backstabbing little maggot, and again for leaving _him_ to deal with all this bullshit.

Aveline was talking to a couple of her guardsmen, getting information about the patrols in the area the slavers were supposed to be, while Fenris twitched and paced in that way he always did whenever they were about to go put some Tevinters out of business. The Lady Hawke herself was absently browsing the stalls, waiting for their dear Guard Captain to do her thing, and Varric took the opportunity to redirect his observations for just a minute or two.

He really, _really _liked Hawke's "travelling robes," though the only thing that made them robes by any definition was that Hawke insisted on calling them that. Trousers and a well-fitting coat were much more practical for adventuring around filthy sewers and rough coastlines, and holy Maker, the view from where he was standing was nice. Granted, he had nothing bad to say about the more traditional, magey robes she usually wore around the city, with low-slung belts and soft, shimmering fabric poured over miles of sweet, supple curves—

Shaking his head slightly, Varric realised he had started ogling an imaginary Hawke in imaginary robes, when a real Hawke was still standing quite nearby, with _that ass_ on proud display in fantastically tight trousers. That was just idiotic.

He probably would have been content to just watch for a bit, but then Hawke's spine went stiff, and with her hair pinned up in preparation for a sweaty day of sun, sand, and killing, Varric could see the back of her neck and the tips of her ears blush faintly pink. To say he was intrigued would be like saying Isabela was an affectionate sort of girl.

Flicking some invisible lint from his coat, Varric sidled over to investigate, purposely keeping his footsteps whisper-quiet. Some mysterious item had drawn such a delicious flush out of his lady, making her fidget, and he wanted to see what it was before she had the chance to deny anything. Then he wanted to buy one.

He was a little surprised, maybe a little disappointed, when he realised the stall belonged to a furniture vendor— he'd been hoping for Orlesian lingerie. Slipping around to stand just beside Hawke, Varric glanced quickly from her enthralled expression, to her current focus of interest.

A footstool? Why would she be—

Oh. Oh, yeah.

_Daddy likes._

Licking his lips, Varric made a valiant effort to stamp down his own rush of arousal as the possibilities buffeted around his brain— up against a wall, bent over the railing on the upper level of her study or over the edge of her big, plush bed, and shit, just for fun, spread across the blighted ledgers and contracts in the Merchants' Guild accounting hall. He wouldn't necessarily need the footstool for that last one, with all the tables made for dwarves, but it was still one of his favourites.

"Well now," he murmured, deep and low, and watched as Hawke jolted in surprise before turning wide, dark eyes in his direction. She had been biting her thumb, and the sight of that moist, tooth-marked little digit fluttering away made his smirk that much broader. "You're thinking naughty things, Beautiful."

"I—I'm just—" Sure, she floundered a bit at being caught out, but then she ducked her head and gave him one of _those _looks. He might have growled, quietly, at the sight of a slow blooming, wicked smile that mirrored his own. "So are you. Shall we compare notes?"

"Absolutely." Sparing one more glance at the greatest footstool in Thedas— yep, it looked stable enough— Varric flagged down the merchant with a quick whistle. He hoped the man had another one in stock, because lugging the thing back and forth between Hightown and the Hanged Man every couple of days would be a pain in the ass.

With any luck, the deliveries would be waiting when they got back. Massacring slavers didn't always have to be its own reward, after all.


	4. Love, Tea, and Bodice Rippers

Varric forced his feet to keep moving, one step at a time, until he was finally standing—_squirming_— outside the Hawke estate. He wasn't sure when exactly he'd gotten so fucking _thick_… why he was there at all, when Hawke had already sent him a very clear note to stay away? She didn't want to see him, which was convenient, since he really didn't want to see her all sick and gross with whatever filthy disease she'd managed to pick up during their last foray into the sewers. He certainly didn't want to _get_ sick, because shit, who had time to laze around in bed for a week, drowning in snot? Not Varric Tethras, that was for damn sure.

His mother, the Stone keep her, used to make a truly awful tea out of red lichen and some other horrific cave slime, supposedly good for ailments of the lungs, and it was something he remembered with a strange, masochistic sort of fondness from when he'd been a boy. Sometime between Hawke's first complaint of a cough and when she'd finally quarantined herself, he'd just happened upon the recipe tucked away in his mother's effects. It was beside the point that he hadn't even glanced at her things in years, or that he'd had to dig through a dozen crates of musty old junk before he found what he was definitely _not _looking for—

Once upon a time, he'd been a much better liar, especially to himself. Maybe it was a side effect of Hawke's craziness rubbing off on him. What a frightening thought.

So, there he was, lamenting the end of his promising career as a businessman, with a skull as thick as Orzammar granite and not a single sane thought left clanking around between his ears. When Bodahn answered the door, with an expression more haggard and annoyed than may have ever before graced the man's usually jovial face, Varric tucked the small satchel of tea inside his coat like a panicky kid who'd just picked his first pocket.

"Serah Tethras," Bodahn sighed, and actually sagged against the door. "You— Come in, please. She's upstairs, in her room."

There were warning bells pealing in his head, but whatever insanity had convinced Varric to spend a very awkward morning stuffing stinking bits of moss into little gauze bags, it now led him quickly inside the dimly lit house. The lamps were all burning low, while the fireplace was churning out an unforgiving kind of heat— just walking past the entrance, getting the first whiff of sick human, Varric knew he was in for some serious nastiness. There wasn't another living soul to be seen, except the mabari curled up snoring in front of the hearth. According to Bodahn's hushed explanation, even Madam Leandra had given up and retired to her own room after one too many feverish tantrums.

He heard Hawke before he saw her, and the sound of her wet, hacking cough blaring through her bedroom door made him stall on the staircase. This was… this was really gross already, Maker save him.

No. There would be no turning back. He could do this— it was just Hawke, beautiful, incredible Hawke, and he was going to drop in for a quick hello (no touching), because he was a moron. No problem at all.

The coughing trailed off, and the room was quiet by the time he made it to the door. Squaring his shoulders, Varric reached up and knocked very, very softly… then again a little bit harder when he got no answer.

He barely recognised the voice that snarled back at him, furious and deeply hoarse. "Blight take you, what is it _now_? Can't you let me die in peace?"

He could. He could leave right then, sprint all the way back to Lowtown and bury himself in drink and paperwork until Hawke was better or dead. It took a significant portion of his willpower to turn the door handle and inch inside.

The room stunk of stale sweat, and Varric very purposefully left the door opened wide behind him, just to air some of it out. There was a large, motionless lump curled up under a mountain of blankets, and he could hear laboured breathing puffing out of the heap.

He took a few more silent steps, sidling around to one side of the bed while keeping a relatively safe distance. "Hey there, sweetheart," he said gently, like he was talking to a spooked horse, and the lump began to wriggle pitifully.

"Varric?" Winning the struggle with the quilts, Hawke's head popped out— sallow skin, sickly sunken eyes, and all. "Why— no, Maker, you shouldn't be here. I'm _disgusting_, and you'll get sick, and I—"

"Hey, none of that." Somehow, keeping a relatively safe distance and no touching had turned into sitting on the edge of the bed, pushing limp locks of hair away from her tacky forehead. "Just let me bask in this opportunity to be so much prettier than you, okay? I mean, it's usually a close race, but now? Shit, babe, it's like you're not even trying."

She laughed, which degraded quickly into wheezing, and then pressed her face into her pillow as the harsh coughing took her again. Varric found his hand rubbing her shoulder and back, and wasn't quite sure how it had gotten there. When she finally stopped, she didn't bother rolling back over to look at him again, curling tighter around the pillow and groaning.

"You'll get sick," she said again, muffled by cotton and goose down, and he dearly wished she'd stop reminding him. "Told you not to come."

"You tell me a lot of things." Her skin was blazing hot, even through the soft linen of her nightdress, and Varric considered whether a cool bath might be the order of the day. It couldn't hurt, if only for the smell.

* * *

><p>He did manage to convince her that a bath was the right idea, mostly because her chills were giving way to sweats. That was how he ended up in his shirtsleeves beside a tub of lukewarm, strongly herbal bathwater, sitting on a footstool that had never been less sexy. Whatever Bodahn had insisted on mixing in the water— something on Anders' orders— it had a sharp, sterile bite that lingered in the back of his throat and made Hawke gripe even more.<p>

A wet, nude, and slippery Hawke was a recurring dream of his— a personal favourite, especially if there were bubbles involved. This particular variation on that theme was not going into his fantasy rotation.

"This tastes like dirty darkspawn ass." She glared into the teacup Orana had brought up, filled with steaming orange liquid. The memory of the flavour Hawke was describing so succinctly nearly made him shudder, but he held back. It was an unappetising remedy, to say the very least, but it worked better than doing nothing at all. "Are you sure your mother used to make this? For _children_?"

He leaned an elbow on the rim of the tub, propping his cheek up in one hand. "Just plug your nose and drink it, you big baby. It'll make you feel better… unless I actually did add too much dirty darkspawn ass. That could be a problem."

Her attention shifted from the tea to him, rheumy glare flashing dark and dangerous, but then she tossed back the entire cup in one long swallow. "There—" She gagged just a little, and sank deeper into the water with a murderous scowl. "If I catch the blight and die now, it's entirely your fault."

The cup was floating in the water, a nasty stain lingering inside from the tea, and Varric snatched it up before it capsized. "So noted, Beautiful."

* * *

><p>"Varric?" In for a silver, in for a sovereign— with fresh sheets on the bed and the room starting to air out, Varric had made himself at home for the time being, propped up against the headboard with a book while a squeaky clean Hawke was bundled beside him. He'd found a rather spicy Antivan romance hidden away on one of the library shelves, and made a mental note to thank Isabela for it later. He was only a couple of chapters in when Hawke's tiny voice broke through his concentration, but there had already been a threesome in a forest glade, a dramatically aborted duel for a lady's dubious honour, and a mysterious masked man in very tight trousers. It was complete trash, but it was hilarious trash.<p>

Dropping the book onto his stomach, Varric glanced over to where one wide, deeply green eye peeked up at him. He'd been fairly certain she'd drifted off to sleep a while before, but now she looked entirely awake, if still miserable. "Hm? You need something, sweetheart?"

She shifted, and he felt her knees brush against his legs. "I really don't want you to get sick."

Calling up a reasonable amount of bravado, Varric shook his head. "What, me? Shit, your pansy little human bugs have got nothing on dwarven fortitude. My people are all but weaned on darkspawn taint, surrounded by that crap from the time we're born—"

Something jabbed him sharply in the hip, making him squawk. "You were born in Jader," Hawke said archly, though the mildly smug effect was ruined by her runny nose. "And you never even saw a darkspawn until you were twenty-three."

Reaching over on the bedside table for an unused handkerchief, Varric offered it to her as a not-so-subtle hint, then politely ignored her blush. "Now you're just getting bogged down by details. That'll ruin a perfectly good story, you know."

He turned back to his book while Hawke blew her nose, but only managed to get a few more paragraphs read before her sniffling became words again. "I've been sleeping for ages. Will… will you read to me?" Something in his chest constricted at her hesitant request, but it wasn't a painful feeling. It was fucking terrifying, but not painful.

"Sure." Whatever unwelcome emotions were threatening to make his voice crack, he swallowed them back, scooting down to lay closer to her. "Are you good with _The Dread Pirate Hardbow, Captain of All Pleasures,_ or should I go grab something slightly less terrible?"

Hawke giggled, subdued enough this time that it didn't end in a coughing fit, and shimmied over until her head rested near his arm, not quite touching. Her colouring was moderately less corpse-like than before the bath and the tea. "Oh, read that. It sounds riveting."

Flipping back to the start of the book, Varric cleared his throat and began, putting on a really theatrical pitch. Tripe like this deserved no less. "It was a sultry evening in the port city of Rialto, with the air hanging warm and heavy like the embrace of a voluptuous courtesan." Hawke's head snuck over a little farther, nuzzling his shoulder, and he tried hard not to think about snot. "Lady Giovanna reclined into the silken caress of her bedclothes, aching with the memory of a more inflaming touch. The memory of a man who had brought her such wild and untamed pleasures, the likes of which could tempt even the most pious chantry sisters…"

* * *

><p>It took three more days, but Hawke eventually clawed her way back into the realm of the hearty and hale. He wasn't stupid enough to question what may have been divine intervention, but Varric somehow managed to make it the entire time without even getting a sore throat, despite spending every evening of her recovery recounting the assorted, bawdy exploits of the Dread Pirate Hardbow and Lady Giovanna. If he'd managed to do something to get in the Maker's good graces, or some Ancestor took a shine to him, that was just peachy— as long as he could keep his lungs phlegm-free, he'd count it as a win.<p>

On the morning of the fourth day, Varric had woken up with a crick in his neck from falling asleep partially sitting up, and Hawke grinning at him. The pinkness in her cheeks was a healthy flush, and her eyes were bright and clear. When she leaned in to press a soft kiss against his forehead, Varric forcibly shoved aside all thoughts of the ridiculous-but-still-sexy scenes he'd been reading to her just the night before, when she'd been too ill to act any of them out. Hawke might be well enough to sit up, to get dressed in real clothes and face the world, but anything more strenuous would take a bit more time.

So he'd shrugged off all thanks for staying with her, falling back on a joke or two before meandering his way back to Lowtown. It felt like years since he'd been home, even more so when he started working his way through his perpetual backlog of paperwork, but even the familiar comfort of his room and the sweet taste of a pint didn't quite feel right. He already missed the constant, irritating rasp of her breathing. That was too bizarre to contemplate.

Time apart at this point probably would have been for the best— Varric was suffering an overdose of Hawke, and the withdrawal was making him woozy. It was every conceivable kind of embarrassing, disturbing, and just _weird_ that he was so distracted by the lack of her presence. They weren't joined at the hip— Andraste's ass, they'd end up killing each other.

Of-fucking-course his heart started hammering against his ribs when she showed up at the Hanged Man that evening, looking every inch her usual gorgeous self, and holding that stupid, blighted book.

Sometime in the mid-afternoon he'd abandoned the idea of getting any work done in his room, where every single surface was saturated with memories of Hawke, naked and otherwise. Getting work done in the tavern was almost as unlikely, with people milling in and out, stories always being told and liquor flowing, but at least he wasn't pining like a milkmaid and freaking himself out. So that was where she found him, partway through a friendly game of diamondback with Isabela, which consisted mostly of trying to out-cheat each other, and Varric had never, ever been happier to find a mouthful of ale left in his mug.

Hawke sauntered in, entirely too perfect for woman who just yesterday was a mess of snot and greasy hair, and Varric felt his mouth go dry. He slammed back the last of his drink, just in case anyone wanted him to speak, but then Hawke was walking over, and the press of her breasts against his shoulder was almost as hot as the ghost of her breath against his ear.

"Will you read to me," she whispered, letting her lips brush his skin. There was a moan lodged in his throat, but he'd choke before he let Isabela hear. Holy Maker, this woman had him _trained._"That last part, in the captain's cabin? Please?"

The only response required was a nod, which was very lucky. He mumbled something to excuse himself, and whatever it was made Isabela howl with laughter, but that didn't matter. Hawke was leading him upstairs with a very promising little smile and a swing to her hips that made his palms itch, and he could already feel lightning sizzling down his spine.

As soon as he had the door bolted behind them, Hawke was bending towards him, overwhelming his senses with smells and tastes— soap, a hint of her perfume, and something minty, all floating above an undertone of _Hawke_. No nasty herbs, no sickness, and Varric couldn't quite remember why he'd been worried about this.

His hands were flashing around like a blur, but Hawke didn't seem to be complaining— he had her stripped down to her skin in a matter of moments, her robes tossed aside with probably less care than they deserved, but his clothes and the book followed right after, so it was only fair. He was mapping her thighs, teasing over her hipbones with his thumbs as he walked her back towards the bed, and every open-mouthed kiss he pressed against her breasts made her gasp and arch against him. She was so _eager,_which was beyond fantastic, but then the fingers she had tangled in his hair tugged sharply, and she stopped halfway to bed.

"Chapter Eleven," she purred, setting his blood blazing with her husky tone even if he didn't understand her words at first. Then his thoughts cleared a little, and they were both suddenly on the same page, literally. Chapter Eleven, the captain's cabin… Varric scrambled through fuzzy memories of that horrifically purple prose, but maybe the basic content would be enough. He could probably skip the bit about the storm too, though he was usually big on setting the scene.

Why was he over-thinking this? Taking the time to catch her pebbled nipple gently between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue in that way that always made her hips jerk, Varric found his voice, murmuring into the softness of her chest. "Lady Giovanna struggled weakly against her merciless captor, what few scraps of clothing the sea hadn't claimed clinging to her wet, luscious body. The rough, tar-stained fingers of the Dread Pirate scraped across her delicate skin, leaving smouldering trails in their wake—" His fingers were stained with ink and tobacco, but that was apparently close enough; Hawke shivered under his touch, mewling with faint, ladylike sounds that should not have turned him on so very much, but _holy shit._

"You _fiend_," she gasped in a breathier version of her own voice, writhing ever so slightly as he turned and started herding her towards the wall. "I will never submit, no matter what foul tactics you employ!"

Yeah, if Hardbow thought he had a good thing going on in Chapter Eleven, he should have tried it from where Varric was standing. Dwarves might need a hand reaching high shelves, but for this? He was perfect.

Getting a decent grip on Hawke's knee, Varric lifted one long leg over his shoulder, spreading most of her weight between himself and the wall as she balanced on one set of tiptoes— between that shift in angle, and curving his back a little, he was hitting a bull's-eye. He nuzzled his nose into that welcoming thatch of hair he'd missed _so much_, taking a moment or two to reacquaint himself with the soft, springy curls before delving deeper.

Hawke whined wordlessly, the muscles in her thigh flexing against his neck, and he used his free hand to sneak up and slide slowly down the length of her wet slit. If he hadn't been expecting her to buck, she might have knocked the both of them ass over tits, but he kept his balance and teased at the velvet of her lips, stroking and dipping ever so briefly inside as her needy sounds got louder.

She was wiggling, trying to get him to lave any sort of attention on that little pearl of sensation hidden away near his chin, but he nipped and kissed low on her belly instead, moving in exactly the wrong direction.

"_Varric_," she snarled, digging her nails into his scalp. "Varric, _ah_, please—" He pushed up with two fingers, gliding easily into the dripping heat of her, and had to bite the inside of his cheek when the tight, slick feeling and her strangled moan made his cock throb painfully.

Starting a slow, deep rhythm with his hand, crooking his fingers on every upstroke to search out that small spongy spot that made her breath stutter and her toes curl against his back, Varric tilted his head enough to look up at her heaving chest and flushed face.

"My lady," he rumbled, fierce coiling _want_ roughening his voice without any effort. "If you find my tactics foul, please, do speak."

Then he pointed his tongue and burrowed between her folds, seeking and lapping until she shrieked and shuddered, but just like Lady Giovanna, she didn't object.

* * *

><p>Much later, after working through the rest of Chapter Eleven, the middle bit of Chapter Twelve, and that part in Chapter Four that had turned out to be a dream sequence, Varric was blissfully content. Sure, his muscles were like jelly, his back had a twinge that might cripple him come morning, and his dick was so sensitive that a stray breeze might bring him to tears, but Hawke was in no better shape, and he was <em>incredibly<em> pleased with himself.

He could feel the room swimming on the other side of his eyelids, exhaustion making everything spin a bit, and sleep seemed like a top-notch kind of cure for that. Hawke was already plastered against his side, all sticky and too warm, and her breathing still had a little congested whistle on the inhale… it was disgusting how much he adored it.

"Hey," she murmured suddenly, dragging his mind out of the comforting clutches of sleep, and he grunted something vaguely inquiring in response. Her voice wasn't nearly as slurred as he'd expected, and shit, if that performance hadn't worn her out, he'd need to invest in some special equipment. A sloppy kiss pressed against his throat, and Hawke's whole gangly body tried to twist around him like a giant cat. "You know I had to re-read some of the book today? Couldn't remember what chapter I wanted."

"You… you did good, sweets," he managed, just barely comprehensible, and blindly patted the arm slung over his chest. "Mmhm, full marks."

He felt her laugh, then kiss him again, this time much softer in the crook of his neck. "Captain Hardbow, a misunderstood scoundrel with a heart of gold, falls madly in love with the elegant Lady Giovanna." He hummed something that was supposed to be _great, but synopsis unnecessary; sleep now._ She didn't quite get the hint. "He realizes that she's the only woman for him, but he's never let himself feel like that before. When he finally tells her, it's lovely and sexy, and they sail off into the sunset together. That's how you told it, but it's not in the book. Hardbow's an ass, and he gets killed in another duel with the Masked Stranger in Chapter Eighteen."

Oh shit. Now he was awake.

"I— uh." This wasn't fair; how was he supposed to think of a decent lie when he was wrapped up in a tangle of inescapable limbs and all his wits had just been milked out of his cock? Maybe if he wished hard enough, he'd have an apoplexy and not have to explain exactly why he was acting like some kind of love-struck twit. "That's… creative licence."

The fact that he _was_ a love-struck twit wasn't something he'd planned to share with her, or even think about too hard. At least not yet.

Hawke was silent for long enough that he thought— prayed— that maybe she'd fallen asleep. Then, just as he started to consider relaxing again, she made her move. He could feel her looming, propped up with arms on either side of him, penning him in. Very reluctantly, he forced his eyes open.

She was staring down at him, tousled waves of rich chestnut hair spilling around her face, and she was smiling. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen that particular smile before, but there was something hidden in the gentle curve of it that… well, it didn't exactly scare him, but it made his heart pound.

"Varric." She rested her chest against his, reaching up to stroke her thumb over his cheekbone and down his jaw. Her eyes searched his face, a lingering study, and her smile never wavered. "You know I love you too, don't you?"

She— he knew— _what_—

"Of course," he said quickly, probably too quickly if the quirk of her brow was any indication, but she didn't call him on it. "How could you not? I'm a catch, Beautiful."

He was also the luckiest bastard in Thedas, but she knew that already.


	5. Inanimate Antipathy

_AN: This is a tiny bit gory at first, just so you know._

* * *

><p>His hand was on <em>fire<em>.

Not literally, which was a bit of blessing considering how fast and loose Daisy tossed her spells around sometimes, but _ah shit_—

He gritted his teeth, and for the very first time since he'd met his soulmate and finally knew what it was to be complete, Varric considered kicking her really fucking hard.

The leather of his glove had parted like warm butter, his palm split wide open from between his ring and pinkie fingers, all the way across to the meaty part under his thumb, and now he was getting _sand_ in it. Shit, shit, shit, every kind of _shit_.

His glove was beyond ruined, and there was blood on his coat, his _own_ blood, with a dark droplet or two even falling onto the toe of his boot… Maker, he was _furious_.

"Bitch," he hissed very quietly, something he had never, ever called her before, but holy Andraste he meant it now. Bianca kept resting serenely where he'd dropped her at his feet, her wicked bayonet dripping with the proof of her spiteful, hateful betrayal, and Varric cursed again when the agony lancing up his arm informed him that no, he would not be moving his fingers just then.

"What's the problem—" Hawke glanced up from where she'd been appropriating a few trinkets from an unfortunate mercenary, or what was left of the man's faintly smoking corpse, but it was catching sight of him that made her blanch. "Maker, Varric, what happened? Are you all right?"

"No," he replied, maybe a little tersely… okay, maybe very tersely. It probably wouldn't have been so bad, even though the cut was nasty and deep, if it hadn't been his _Bianca_who'd done it to him. "Really, no. My hand—"

Hawke was darting to his side in an instant, crouching near his elbow and reaching out with her own hands already pulsing bright blue. Somewhere nearby, Daisy shrieked, but Varric didn't have the patience to reassure her. Later, he'd probably feel guilty for letting her fret; with Hawke occupied, that only left Fenris, and the Viscount of Broody wasn't likely to offer their sweet little blood mage a friendly shoulder.

There was a slight tingle in his palm, cutting through the white-hot throbbing, but then it stopped without taking any of the pain with it. Hawke was biting her lip, looking so apologetic that he thought he might throw up. If she couldn't do anything— if his hand, his _right hand_, was ruined—

Forget lockpicking and disarming traps. He'd have to learn how to play cards, how to _write_ again—

"Varric, darling," Hawke said gently, but with an undercurrent of frantic haste. "I can't heal this with your glove still on. Do you… should I put you to sleep?"

Yanked out of that vortex of mounting dread, Varric nearly sagged with relief, even with the realization that actually removing his glove was going to be a blighted nightmare. Still, he would rather not be magically knocked out while they were stuck in the ass-end of nowhere, surrounded by dead mercenaries who might have friends waiting around the next hill.

"No, let's just do it." Flames, he hated the Wounded Coast. No sane person would intentionally get hot, sweaty, and bloody when there wasn't a single tavern for miles. After this, he was never stepping foot outside Kirkwall again. "If it's really bad, I'll pass out anyway."

He forced a weak little twitch of his mouth, not even close to a real smirk, and Hawke looked at him with wide green eyes glittering damply. "I'm so sorry, love," she murmured, and he locked his jaw so as not to curse a blue streak right in her face. Her fingers took very careful hold of the edge of his glove, but it didn't matter how slow or gentle she went— pulling still meant blinding pain, more blood, and as a special added bonus, a very clear view of exactly how deeply he'd managed to stab himself. The wound stretched when tacky leather stuck to his skin, there may have been a flash of bone, and passing out was starting to seem like a better idea all the time.

As soon as the glove finally tugged free of his fingers, that blue glow of healing flared to life and started prickling through him again. Flesh began to knit together very sluggishly, and somehow the sight of that was much worse than the previous gore; in one last ditch attempt to avoid heaving his guts up all over the sand, Varric shifted his attention to Hawke's face.

Her expression was completely intent, right down to the little line between her eyebrows and the way she was simply holding her bottom lip between her teeth, not gnawing at all. It was cute, but would have been cuter if she was pouring over some arcane tome instead of his nasty hand, especially if she was reading it in bed. A combination of blood loss and the weird, calming feeling of healing magic was making him slightly woozy, but the distraction of his imagination taking such a jaunt was entirely welcome. Hawke, all curled up in his bed, reading… reading _naked_, but draped in his sheets just enough to make it tantalizing—

Hawke made a small, frustrated sound. "I wish Anders was here," she muttered, shaking him out of his daydreaming. "I couldn't… there's a scar."

Shit, mages were always so dramatic. Varric stopped himself from explaining exactly how little he cared about a blighted scar, since without her magic he'd probably be down a couple of fingers. "Relax, sweetheart," he said instead, hazarding a glance at the thick line of fresh pink skin slicing across his bloody palm. It wasn't even as big as he'd thought, and it was pretty smooth, too. "It'll make for good stories, and women go crazy for scars. It's getting outrageous just how irresistible I am."

He'd been trying to get a laugh, but he got a kiss instead— not a remotely bad trade, all things considered, even if he could taste the desperation and fear still humming through Hawke. He would have cupped her face, soothing the tension out of her jaw, but his hands were way too filthy, so he tried to make due with slanting his mouth and trying to calm her by slowing the kiss down a bit. It wasn't particularly effective, and on a different day, Varric might have complained about the death grip she had on the sides of his head while she took violent possession of his mouth. This was not a kiss meant for public scrutiny, and he heard Daisy giggle.

"Hawke," he gasped when she finished bruising his lips, watching as she pressed her forehead against his, eyes closed and breath coming slow but shallow. "It's all right, babe. I'm fine."

"I know," she murmured, barely audible, and still didn't open her eyes. "Just let me be ridiculous for a minute, please?"

"I love it when you're ridiculous." Careful to only touch her with the driest patch of blood and dirt, Varric stroked his knuckles gently along her jaw. "You can tell, since I still drag my ass all over this blighted coast whenever you ask, _and _I'd camp out here with the bugs and the bandits for a fortnight if it meant making you smile. How's that?"

It managed to draw a smile from her, at least. Mouth twisting up slightly, Hawke inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. "Terribly romantic. Mawkish, even."

"Not losing my touch, then. Good to know."

* * *

><p>They trudged back into the city a couple of hours later, and before he could even think to ask, Hawke was nodding thanks and goodbyes to their elven companions and ushering him towards the Hanged Man. Towards his familiar, comfortable suite, his own bed, and his rather extensive liquor cabinet.<p>

If he'd ever entertained any doubts that he loved this woman with every bit of his heart… Maker's _breath_.

There were also a great many wonderful perks to having a mage around, some less obvious than others (and some much more intimate, but he needed to sit and catch his breath, preferably with dram or two of whisky before he thought too long in that direction). Easy access to hot water was one of those things he rarely considered, until a situation like this presented itself— he was itchy and sore, skin caked with sweat and dirt and way too much of his own blood. He'd wiped some of it off with seawater, but the bitter salt was nearly as uncomfortable when it dried as the grime.

Somewhere between weaving around the drunk-and-disorderlies that populated the tavern's lower floor, and stumbling into his rooms, Varric lost track of Hawke. If his head hadn't been pounding fit to crack his skull, he might have gone back down to make sure she hadn't gotten dragged into some inane conversation with one of the regulars, or wrangled by Isabela, but his feet were already busy toeing off his boots. Going sock-foot in the Hanged Man was just begging for trouble, whether in the form of broken glass, mysterious wetness, or some hideous, rotting disease. Tossing his coat aside as well, somewhere in the vicinity of a chair, Varric groaned and ambled over to his pitcher and washbasin.

Bianca… well, Bianca he left propped against the wall just next to his bedroom. He hadn't quite decided what to do with her yet.

The water was cool, but good enough to get the worst of the lingering muck from under his nails. He splashed his face before he muddied the basin up too badly, and was shaking the excess droplets out of his hair when Hawke finally made her appearance, slipping into his room with Corff and the new kitchen boy, Jerran, in tow. The men were carrying a large metal tub between them, already sloshing, a little less than half-full with what looked like water.

Varric raised one brow, patting his face with a clean cloth, but Hawke simply smiled impishly and turned to Corff, pressing some coin into the man's hand before tossing a silver to the boy as well. "Two more buckets should do it, Jerran. Thank you."

"Right away, messere." The silver disappeared into Jerran's pocket so fast, it was as if it had never been, and the boy was scuttling out of the room not much slower. Corff was a bit less manic about the whole thing, thanking Hawke before offering Varric a nod and taking his leave.

He had a tub already— a squatty thing, big enough to sit in but not soak for too long without getting a cramp. Anything bigger was a pain in the ass to get filled, and hey, now that he had access to a fancy Hightown estate whenever he liked, it was even less of an issue. Hawke had a beautiful copper tub at home, large enough for the pair of them to soak in together even if they got a bit frisky, and it was glorious.

The tub Corff had brought was roomier than his, but smaller than Hawke's, and Varric thought he might recognise it as the tin washtub ostensibly used for scrubbing the Hanged Man's linens. It didn't exactly look… worn out.

He could have made a joke of it, but the thought of a bath, a long, hot bath with Marian…

"Don't tell the Chantry," he said instead, raking one hand back through his slightly damp hair; his leather cord fell to the floor, unheeded. "But you are a goddess."

* * *

><p>In no time at all, Jerran returned with the last of the water (and got another silver for his trouble, and for Hawke's generous heart), and Varric watched as his goddess turned a puddle into a paradise, calling up just enough flame to make steam rise from the tub. He didn't even have to ask whether or not he'd earned some company, either, as her robes fell away to reveal all that creamy, gorgeous skin.<p>

Sparing a glance between him (also quite naked at this point, and drawing closer), and the tub, Hawke tilted her head for a moment, then stepped into the steaming water with a hiss. Watching that long, luscious body sink under the water was almost a tragedy, if only for the faint obscuring effect of the ripples and the steam, but then his lady beckoned, and Varric was helpless to do anything but obey.

Granted, he made a brief detour to grab a rather nice bottle of whisky and one glass, but then he was all hers.

The water was almost too hot, but after overcoming the initial shock, it was utter bliss. The heat started leeching into his muscles almost immediately, soothing away a day full of particularly stressful aches, and the slick press of Hawke's thighs against his ribs was certainly helping too. Working around the bulk of his shoulders and the length of her legs could be a bit tricky when deciding a good position to share a bathtub, but this time his back against her chest seemed to work pretty well.

Yanking the stopper free, he poured a healthy dose of liquor into the glass, then offered it to Hawke first. She didn't move to take it, just steadied the back of his hand with her fingers as she sipped over his shoulder. He smiled at that, and she smiled back so sweetly it made his chest pang, before she darted in for a brief, whisky-flavoured kiss.

If he weren't sure his muscles would have staged a coup, he would have wriggled around and ravished her right then and there, leisurely soak be damned. Reining himself in just a bit, he managed to take a long swallow of whisky rather than another taste of Marian, setting the empty glass carefully on the floor beside the tub.

Sliding lower, letting the water lap up against his collarbones, Varric made absolutely no attempt to stifle his deep, contented groan when her fingers started carding through his hair. He'd never in his life found a more comfortable place to rest his head than on her soft, supple breasts… except possibly the inside of her thigh. That was an outstanding pillow.

One of her hands strayed, squeezing at his neck and shoulder as it trailed down, and Varric arched into the touch. "Mmm yeah, okay. This… this was possibly your greatest idea ever, Beautiful. At least top five."

Hawke chuckled warmly, pressing a kiss against his temple. "What can I say? Maybe divine inspiration?" She was stroking down his arm, lower and lower, until finally she caught his wrist, lifting his hand out of the soothing water to run her thumb gently over the his latest, brightly pink scar.

He waited, ignoring the faint ghosts of pain that were really only in his memory, and let her deal with whatever phantom hurts were plaguing her. He'd had worse than a cut on the hand, and so had she (nearly having her head torn off by that gargantuan spider in the Deep Roads sprang to mind, but Varric dismissed the ugly memories as quickly as they came). Something was different now.

"I love your hands," she said eventually, with quiet words muffled against the skin of his neck. "I love that they're so much bigger than mine, rougher and forever warmer. I love that they're a hundred times more nimble than they look, and a thousand times gentler."

"Marian—" She shushed him, abandoning his hair to wrap her free arm tight around his chest, pulling him closer. Where this was all coming from, he wasn't quite ready to guess, but despite what the rumours suggested, Varric Tethras did indeed know when to shut up.

"I love your hands," she said again, and the feel of her teeth catching and tugging on one of his earrings, all hot breath and promise, was enough to make his hips jerk, water splashing dangerously close to the lip of the tub. "And I would love nothing more than to have them all over me, right now."

Well. He could do that.

Turning to face her, balancing on his knees against the bottom of the tub, Varric would have grabbed the edge for some added support, but he'd been given a very clear directive. Hands. Hawke. All over.

Still, as fantastic as that sounded, he was a sucker for multitasking. Sinking one arm under the water to tease her thigh and the curve of her hip, he slid very close, nuzzling just under her jaw.

"Mm, Marian," he murmured, and was rewarded with fingers raking through his chest hair as she sighed and wriggled so beautifully. It was almost a crime to distract her from petting him, but he was a dwarf on a mission.

While waiting for Jerran to come back with the last buckets of water, Varric had gathered up his usual basket of bathing supplies, and now he craned one arm over the side of the tub, straining to reach his prize even as he peppered Hawke's neck with firm, wet kisses. She tasted like water, but also still of sweat and dust— he had just the thing to fix that, once he managed to catch hold of it.

Hawke liked his soap, which was sweet in a slightly weird way. The Hightown shops certainly weren't hurting for fancy, fragrant oils and bubble baths, but he still found himself paying twice as many visits to that smarmy Antivan merchant in the bazaar. Hawke had absolutely no scruples about blatantly filching his freshly bought cakes of plain, sandalwood soap, whether or not he had any extra on hand.

When he'd asked _why in the Void_, possibly a little bit annoyed but mostly curious, she'd blushed so prettily. Then she'd deflected, and told him he could come up to Hightown for a bath anytime he found himself without soap, which even his well-honed business sense agreed was a damn good deal. He dropped the subject, but didn't forget the question.

He wasn't a stupid man; he was, in fact, particularly clever, and not nearly humble enough to doubt it. She wanted his smell near her. That was just too sexy for words, and Maker knew he had a lot of words at his disposal.

Finally catching hold of his target, Varric drew back, smirking a little as Hawke blinked at him with wide eyes already gone a bit glassy. Dipping the soap in the water, he quickly worked up a thick lather between his hands, then held the sudsy cake out towards her.

"Hold this for me, would you, babe? I'm going to need both hands for this." Obviously warming to his intentions, Hawke bit her bottom lip and took the soap without argument. As a reward for being so agreeable, Varric decided to lay off teasing her (for the moment, at least), and immediately started stroking over her collarbones and shoulders, leaving glistening, fragrant trails with every swipe of his hands. It wasn't quite as conducive to a good scrub as using a washcloth, but when Hawke arched into his touch, her beautiful breasts straining towards him, the practical portion of the exercise became a very distant secondary concern.

"Is that good?" Sliding his hands down, skimming along her ribs, dipping under the water then back up to her breasts, Varric managed to draw an almost strangled whimper from his lover, thumbs grazing her wet, pebbled nipples. "Talk to me, Beautiful."

Marian Hawke was the first woman Varric had ever met who could render him speechless on a fairly regular basis. Sure, she loved the sound of his voice, and on one very memorable occasion he had actually managed to talk her to orgasm (the thought of it still made his cock pulse with want and no small amount of pride— they _had_to try that again soon), but she also loved reducing him to a gibbering mess whenever the mood struck her.

At this point, he found himself in a similar sort of mood.

Her cheeks were already flushed, and not just from the heat of the water, but when he started plucking at her breasts just exactly how she liked— gentle at first, rolling, then pinching harder after every hitch in her breathing— her colour darkened from pink to vivid cherry. Her slippery thighs were spread around his ribs, impossibly long legs wrapped around his back, and he could feel every lift and shudder of her hips as she sought some friction against any part of him she could reach.

"Talk," he said again, leaning close enough to blow a stream of cool air, chilling one firm nipple to near diamond hardness. Gasping sharply, Hawke's head fell back against the rim of the tub with a quiet thud.

"Maker, Varric… what…" Flicking his tongue out for a brief taste, Varric twisted his fingers lightly around her other neglected nipple at the same time, not wanting to play favourites. The flavour the soap added to her skin left something to be desired, but it wasn't horrendous. They served worse downstairs. "Ah, Andraste's _pyre_… stop blighted teasing and _suck me_—"

"As my lady commands," he rumbled, not even making a cursory attempt to hide the smugness in his tone, and the moment Hawke lifted her head to snap at him, he latched onto her breast with lips and tongue, and slipped his free hand down to play between her legs. She was already slick and molten, hiccupping out a surprised cry and fucking herself on his fingers with urgency that might have been funny if it wasn't so incredibly _scorching _hot…

Tugging lightly with his teeth, Varric rolled his thumb _just so_ over the little pearl of nerves tucked away between her folds, faster and faster to mimic the movements of her hips, and the water rolled in waves around them, cresting over the edge of the tub to splash softly against the floorboards as she bucked under his touch. He didn't hear it happen, didn't notice or care, because Hawke was chanting his name over and over, with all the unwavering concentration she had when spellcasting, though he'd never heard her voice tremble like _that_when casting a glyph. Regardless, this had to be some kind of magic— how else could a simple (Hawke? No, never simple, never easy or ordinary) human woman make him feel like he'd been declared a Paragon every time he made her come?

"So beautiful," he mumbled into the soft cushion of her heaving chest, hoarse words slipping in between suckles and nips. Watching her come apart was incredible, with her rosy lips parted and her wide green eyes blown dark, eyelashes fluttering. "So beautiful, Marian… You love my hands on you, inside you…" Twisting his fingers, seeking and finding, Varric couldn't help but grin when he felt her toes curl, digging into the small of his back.

A few things happened at once. Withdrawing just enough to press against _that spot_, all the while still strumming at her pearl with his thumb, Varric felt his cock twitch in sympathy (or possibly jealousy), as Marian tumbled wildly into bliss. Her back arched, her chanting transforming into a soft, reedy wail as she clamped around his fingers, pulsing. And the soap, all but forgotten, shot like a bolt out of her tightened fist, arcing gracefully through the air before landing and skittering under one of his bookshelves.

Yes, he was still awfully turned on and all but gagging to drag her over to the bed and lose himself in a bout of damp, desperate, pounding sex (possibly while she was still quivering from the first orgasm), but by all his beady-eyed Ancestors, the pitiful fate of that damned soap was _hysterical_.

So instead of manhandling his lax, boneless lover up out of the tub (which admittedly would have been a bit awkward, but not an impossible for a resourceful dwarf), Varric found himself pulling her close and muffling his helpless laughter against her neck. It wasn't as dashingly romantic as it could have been, but it did get him long, gentle fingers stroking through his hair, and a magnificently naked, reasonably debauched woman giggling along with him.

* * *

><p>Eventually they did make it to the bed, cleaner and dryer than they would have been had his plan for the romantic ravishing worked out. Realistically, it was less of a pain in the ass if they didn't soak the sheets and the mattress through with bathwater— goose down and wool flock took forever to dry, and didn't always have the most attractive smell when they got too damp. Those considerations, coupled with the fact that Varric still found himself splayed out on his back, being ridden, kissed, and caressed by possibly the sweetest, sexiest woman in Thedas… he easily counted that as a win.<p>

She was scratching her nails over his chest, fingertips sparking with the occasional jolt of magic, and every slow roll of her hips sent lightning through his nerves that had nothing to do with her arcane powers. This had become languorous, tender lovemaking, with whispered words and soft kisses, and despite the tightness in his balls, Varric would have been content to stay just like that for an age.

Marian Hawke had turned him into a fucking sap, but he adored her anyway.

"Varric," she murmured, rubbing a suddenly icy finger around one of his nipples, making him hiss. He loved it when she played dirty. "Tell me you love me."

A few months before, and that gently spoken request probably would have made his throat close up, not to mention sent his cock trying to crawl up into his gut. A couple of years before, and he would have been out of that bed so fast, possibly out of _Kirkwall_, that the drunks downstairs would've sworn on their mothers' pyres that they'd seen a naked, flying dwarf, or possibly a giant, very well-hung pigeon.

Now, with this woman in this bed, Varric didn't even stutter.

"I love you." Cupping the back of her neck, blowing a few damp strands of her soft brown hair out of his face, he guided her in for a deep, wet kiss, all tongues and moist lips teasing. She drank him in, moaning and rocking her hips just a bit faster, and the quiet bubble they'd built was straining to burst.

She came first, panting and jerking against him, and he dug his heels hard into the mattress, thrusting quick and staccato as his vision narrowed and he followed her over the precipice.

When the dust settled, he had a limp, leggy woman lounging against his chest, both of them all tacky with sweat. He also had utterly no interest in moving, possibly ever again, unless the arm she'd cradled her head on started to go numb.

She was kissing his palm, brushing her lips gently over his new scar, and if he glanced over the top of her head, he could just see Bianca, silent and still, propped against the wall.

He hadn't cleaned her since they'd been back, not even to shake the sand out of her mechanisms. The salt air of the coast wasn't exactly kind to her finish, either; a thorough dismantling and oiling would probably be necessary, or at least a good idea, and he knew her string could use some wax.

She still had his blood on her. He wasn't about to forget that.

He took good care of Bianca, no less now than he had before he'd started _taking care_ of Marian (not in the same way, no matter what the filthy rumour merchants peddled around— a man could be passionate about his crossbow without things getting weird). In return, she took good care of him; up until this incident, she'd been the most trustworthy, surest weapon he'd ever had his hands on. She was special.

He had no reason to feel guilty, he hadn't been neglecting her, and shit, she'd seen more action than a crossbow twice her age, just in the years since he'd offered some hotshot dog lord refugee a stake in Bartrand's insane expedition. Killing bandits and other lowlifes, blood mages, slavers, giant spiders, rock wraiths… It was a fantastic life for a weapon whose primary function was to _end life_.

Sighing, confused and worn out, Varric decided this was all too crazy to think about when he'd just been fucked into oblivion, thank you very much. Playing with the curling ends of Hawke's hair, humming quietly to himself, Varric drummed up enough forgiveness to offer his Bianca a small, private smile.

He was a smart, adaptive kind of man. They'd make it work.


	6. Squint and You'll Miss It

He didn't like to work in bed— bringing blighted ledgers and trade manifests into the bedroom felt too much like letting the Merchant's Guild literally fuck him over, and it usually made Hawke a tiny bit sulky. Tonight, though… shit, if he just worked at these figures a little longer, he might be able to make a dent in the hideous amount of paperwork that had started to backlog ever since Bartrand had begun featuring fondly in his elaborate revenge fantasies.

Just a few more pages, some contract revisions, and he'd sleep. Truly, this time.

"You missed a bit," Hawke murmured, nuzzling his shoulder and sounding at least half asleep, but somehow she was right. Flipping back a page, Varric bent down to press a kiss against the crown of her mussed chestnut hair.

"Thanks, babe." Keeping the inky end of his stubby quill away from his face, Varric pushed his glasses up with his knuckles, barely resisting the urge to just give up and _sod _the contract. Why in the Void did he give two shits whether or not the nobles in Orzammar were kept well stocked with pickled beets?

They paid in gold and precious gems. That was why he gave two shits.

"Mm, so dashing," Marian said softly, muffled against his skin, and a quick glance over confirmed she was looking up at him with soft, sultry eyes. "Scholarly, but sexy. Have I mentioned I love a man in spectacles?"

Lowering the contract onto his lap, Varric smiled a bit wryly, readjusting the thin brass frames resting on his nose. He didn't wear them often, unless he was hunkered down in the privacy of his rooms, and even then, only when the strain of tiny, cramped text became too much to bear. "Is that so? No, Beautiful, I don't think you've ever mentioned that particular fetish."

He could feel her mouth curve into a smile, pressed into his shoulder, and he may have squirmed just a little when one slender hand snuck up to card through his chest hair. Suddenly the contract, already overdue and a pain in his ass, seemed like it could definitely wait a bit.

The delight she took in fogging up his glasses was hilarious, and since it came with the added bonus of getting him smothered in long, languorous kisses, it was unquestionably a win. Having her pushing them up his face every time they slipped down his nose with sweat, and staring tenderly into his eyes as she came undone under him… well, that was very good too.

Waking up the next morning, Varric knew he'd have to redo at least half of the revisions— dark red ink was smeared over crumpled paper, even smudged onto the sheets in places— but _holy shit_, had it ever been worth it. Vanity be damned, he was never, ever squinting at his letters again.


End file.
